A Game of Sha'rah
by Youko Koenma
Summary: Moridin has thought of a way to alleviate the stange illness plaguing both him and al'Thor. Slash, one sided MoridinRand


I'm on a role with these slashy ficlets. This is my first stab at writing the delectable evil Moridin; I hope he turned out all right. Rand is, unfortunately, _way_ too calm. Un-beta'd; let me know if you see any mistakes that I missed while proof-reading. And do please review: they make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

This story contains slash of the m/m variety. Don't like it? Feel free to use the "back" button on your browser window. Don't say you haven't been warned.

Disclaimer: The Wheel of Time series and all characters therein are the property of Robert Jordan. No copyright infringement is intended by this piece, despite the millions I'm making off it. **:coughIwishcough:** Honestly, I just wanted to have a little fun.

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The room was dark, but the thin moonlight trickling in through the window was enough for Moridin's Power-enhanced vision to make out the two figures lying in the large bed. He stepped through the gateway and let it close behind him, but held on to the True Source. The sheer bliss of it (not unlike the ecstasy felt in the presence of the Great Lord) was not enough to overpower the sudden wave a nausea that hit him, causing him to stumble.

The larger of the pair on the bed stirred, moaning softly in his sleep. Moridin froze, hardly breathing, but Rand al'Thor did not stir again.

He let out a soft sigh, leaning against one of the heavy Tairen chairs (this one with a robe tossed carelessly over it) in the bedchamber as he waited for the nausea to pass. He was in no condition at the moment to attack if al'Thor were to awaken prematurely. Of course, if Moridin's hypothesis were correct, al'Thor wouldn't be in any condition to attack, either.

When his stomach settled, he straightened, swaying a little. He felt light-headed, an almost euphoric feeling quite aside from the addicting euphoria of the True Power. The dizziness had not felt like this, before. It seemed proximity to al'Thor strengthened the effect. Just as Moridin had thought. He only hoped the rest of his theory was right, as well.

He crept quietly to the bedside, soft-soled boots hardly making a sound. So close to such a powerful _ta'veren_, he imagined he could _feel_ the Pattern distorting itself around the man. Harsh currents a man could easily be swept away by. But Moridin was no tool, to be used and discarded by the accursed Pattern.

He turned his attention to the woman, curled on her side against al'Thor. The blanket had fallen away, revealing her arm and shoulders, and the pale, fleshy globe of one of her breasts. A pretty toy.

His lips curled in contempt. A pretty toy, but a toy nonetheless. Hardly worthy of the affections of his ancient nemesis. His soul and al'Thor's were intertwined, both locked in a cycle of conflict as old as the Wheel itself. Compared to that, this girl was nothing more than a parasite. A flea clinging to the back of a majestic lion, the king of his pride.

Still, even parasites could be dangerous. He deftly wove Spirit and Air and a touch of Fire. The girl gasped in her sleep, arching slightly, then fell still. She would not wake up to bother him, now.

Al'Thor woke abruptly with a gasp of his own. Moridin knew exactly when the other man seized _saidin_; the nausea nearly overwhelmed him with its suddenness, and he put a hand to his mouth, leaning heavily against the bedpost. It was of little comfort to see al'Thor clasping his remaining hand against his own mouth, curling on his side and quivering.

"Stop it, you fool!" he hissed between clenched teeth. "You're just going to make us both sick up."

Still, _saidin_ filled the man, as much as Moridin himself could hold. "What are you doing here, Darkfriend?" the other man snarled. "What have you done to Min?" Moridin was a little surprised to see al'Thor raise his hand, a half-woven web of balefire ready to be released at any moment. He tensed, ready to leap aside, but al'Thor only glared at him.

"Just something to keep her asleep." Even as he spoke, he wove his own web, a nasty weave that would inflict great pain, but would not kill. He needed al'Thor alive for a little longer, yet. "I just came here to talk. Surely you've noticed it's getting worse."

"What do you mean?" The young man's tone was cautious, but anger still shone in his expression, and he did not release his web.

"The sickness," Moridin replied shortly. Was the boy really that dense?

Al'Thor's arm lowered slightly. "What's happening to us?" He propped himself us with his other arm, hard eyes fixed steadily on Moridin. The blanket slipped down to his waist, exposing the muscular contours of his chest. Al'Thor really was quite handsome, moreso than Lews Therin had been. Moridin had always been partial to redheads, in his life before the drilling of the Bore. After, he had not even considered wasting his time on such frivolous distractions.

"In Shadar Logoth," he replied slowly. "When our balefire streams crossed, it created some sort of... connection between the two of us. I've never heard of such a thing happening, but balefire has never been studied extensively."

Al'Thor scowled at him. "What were you doing in Shadar Logoth, anyway?"

"Observing," Moridin said quietly. "And fortunate for you that I was." The boy's scowl deepened.

"What are you doing here?"

"I had an idea of how we might fix this."

Al'Thor's gaze went back to the girl, lingering on her face. Moridin barely suppressed a scowl of his own. Couldn't he see that she was _nothing_? The young man's gaze lingered only for a moment, though, before returning to Moridin. He sat up fully, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The blanked pooled in his lap, just barely covering him. The moon washed his skin in its soft, silvery light, making him look entirely... soft. Except his eyes. Not even moonlight could soften those bits of blue-gray steel.

Clucking his tongue, suddenly amused, Moridin pushed himself away from the bedpost and moved back to the chair, the dizziness putting a heavy sway in his stride. He tossed the robe he'd noticed earlier carelessly in al'Thor's direction, then politely turned his back. Mostly, anyway. He didn't trust the boy enough to turn away completely.

The boy rose, swaying, and hastily donned the garment, using flows of Air to cinch the belt tightly around his waist. "So how do you think we can fix this?" he asked, moving closer to Moridin.

"This is only a guess, but..." Moridin tilted his head to one side, studying the the boy. "This strange sickness has continually gotten worse. Somehow, it seems strange to me that there should be any sickness at all, though I can't pretend to have any insight to this _connection_ of ours. But it's possible that our being apart may be what is causing the sickness."

"But we're together now. I don't feel any better. In fact, I feel worse." Those cold eyes bore into him, as if al'Thor were trying to drill a hole through Moridin's head with just that stare. It occurred to him suddenly that this man bore little resemblance to the innocent shepherd whose dreams he had tormented hardly two years ago. Moridin missed that boy, in a way; his aura, a curious blend of naivete and command, had drawn Moridin to him, as it had drawn so many others. He had hoped al'Thor was the one, right from the beginning. The other two _ta'veren_ had seemed bland in comparison to al'Thor's fiery passion.

"It may be that more than mere... proximity... might be required," Moridin said carefully, watching the boy from beneath lowered lashes. Black flecks floated across his vision, the price to be payed for using the True Power. A small enough price, all things considered.

Stony eyes that had once shown so brightly regarded him flatly. Then, slowly, al'Thor extended his hand. "If you're not right about this, I'll kill you," the boy said coldly. Moridin didn't doubt al'Thor was considering killing him, anyway.

"That might be... unfortunate. For both of us." Of that, Moridin was positive. The young man nodded; slowly, reluctantly, but agreeing.

A touch of mischief stirred within him. Moridin stepped past al'Thor's outstretched hand, releasing the True Power as he did. Al'Thor backed up a step, and Moridin followed, leaning forward to lightly brush his lips against the boy's.

It was like some great knot had been forming within him, growing larger and tighter as time passed. Now, with lightest contact, the knot released with almost explosive force: he could _feel_ the tension rushing from him, like water from a burst dam. The feeling left him gasping and clinging to al'Thor. It was not pleasurable, exactly; nor was it exactly _not_ pleasurable.

The girl moaned loudly in her sleep. "Oh," al'Thor said breathlessly. Moridin could feel him trembling, and was surprised to notice the man's hand gripping his arm, and the handless arm slung over his shoulder. He hurriedly pulled his own arms away from al'Thor waist. He didn't remember putting his arms around the boy.

"That wasn't--" The young man's voice trailed off. He was clearly troubled, and his eyes darted back to the girl on the bed.

"It wasn't," Moridin said agreeably. He couldn't keep back the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, though, and the boy flushed. With embarrassment or anger, he couldn't tell.

They both stepped back, and Moridin could feel _saidin_ filling al'Thor again as he grasped the True Power. The painful sweetness flooded him, and he nearly danced a jig for the lack of accompanying illness. Al'Thor's face reflected his own wonder. "I can't believe that worked."

Moridin was a little insulted, but his smile didn't fade. "We'll probably have to do this again, you know." At al'Thor's alarmed expression, he added, "The touching bit. The sickness will probably begin again soon."

"Oh." The boy sounded disappointed. For some reason, that irritated Moridin. "Who are you? I don't recognize--" He trailed off again, this time looking embarrassed. It seemed the boy really _did_ hear the voice of his previous incarnation.

"Call me Moridin," he replied.

"Moridin," al'Thor said flatly. The shock was fading, leaving only that cold, brittle shell. "I've never heard of you."

Moridin did not take the opening to expound on his identity. "I'll come and find you again when the first symptoms start reappearing." He turned away from the boy and opened a gateway, using the True Power to rip a hole in the Pattern. The world seemed to scream in his ears, and the sound filled him with pleasure. Soon, the world really _would_ be screaming. But it would be for the best, in the end. Anything to be free from the oppressive Pattern that played the world as deftly as Asmodean had once played the _chi'gora_.

About to step on the Skimming platform, he paused, half-turning back to the young man. "What you did at Shadar Logoth--cleansing _saidin_," he paused, watching the boy's expression carefully. "I can't approve of it, of course. But it was impressive. Very impressive." The boy looked poleaxed, mouth hanging open. "As brilliant as anything Lews Therin ever did. Perhaps more so." He paused. "You've done very well, Rand."

Al'Thor's stunned expression as he stepped onto the Skimming platform and let the gateway close behind him was quite gratifying.

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One of the _zomara_ was waiting patiently when he arrived back at his quarters near Shayol Ghul. Their pleasantly blank stares unnerved most, even among the Chosen, but Moridin payed it no attention, other than to toss his coat into its waiting hands. He strode into his bedchamber, followed immediately by another one of the _zomara_ (as blond-haired and blue-eyed as the other; they were all alike in appearance), this one bearing a cup of hot, spiced wine, which it set on the small round table next to the _sha'rah_ board. He dropped into the plain chair, eyes on the board as he absently reached for the cup. He didn't even notice the creature leaving.

The Fisher King held his attention, now. The most important piece in the game, it could change sides at any time. If you played the game right. Pieces moved, and Moridin watched with satisfaction as his strategy unfolded before his eyes.

Most people would think you couldn't lose, if you were playing both sides of the game. But even when playing both sides, it was inevitable that one side would be more important than the other. He could not take the Fisher King, yet. It eluded him still, as it had since Mierin and Beidomon had drilled the Bore. In this game, it seemed unlikely he would be able to take it by force. But there were yet other ways he could capture the Fisher King.

Some time later, he took a sip of wine and was surprised to discover it was stone cold. He had hardly noticed the time passing. He was tired, as well. It irritated him, sometimes, the necessity of sleep. Not that he slept much, anyway.

He undressed quickly, heedless of the _zomara_ that had appeared to gather up his discarded garments. Seizing the True Power--oh, the exquisite agony, untainted by sickness!--and doused the lights, slipping beneath the sheets. They were linen, as plain as everything else in his private quarters. He felt no need to surround himself with ostentatious shows of meaningless wealth.

Sleep was elusive, however. His mind replayed the scene in al'Thor's bedchamber over and over as he tossed and turned restlessly. Blue-gray eyes as cold and lifeless as they had once been heated and full of life filled his mind's eye: it seemed he would not get any rest until that unblinking stare was no longer piercing him.

He flopped onto his back with a heavy sigh. There was a rustling next to his bed. One of the _zomara_; they always anticipated the desires of those they served. Tonight, the empty creature held no interested for him. It was the image of Rand al'Thor, bathed in moonlight and nothing more, that stayed in his mind as his hand slipped beneath the blanket.


End file.
